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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22356622">Eye of the Storm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissKira/pseuds/NazyJayne'>NazyJayne (MissKira)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Episode Tag, F/M, Family, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Recovery, Reunion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:20:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,250</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22356622</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissKira/pseuds/NazyJayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Watkins has been contained, the Whitlys reunited, and yet the storm continues raging as help arrives. Told as each character is reunited with Malcolm.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>300</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Jessica</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is purely self-indulgence.</p><p>I was in my car, trying taking a nap during lunch, when the first two paragraphs of this came to me. And Jessica is a Bossy Lady. I wrote this during my breaks today and enjoyed doing so, but am kinda scared (???) to post! </p><p>I have the next two parts (Ainsley and Dani) already in my head and will post one a day until I’ve hit everyone and end on Malcolm. Our beautiful mess of an idiot.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p>
    <em>I always thought that I knew where</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>I came from</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>And I always thought that I knew how</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>And I was wrong</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>It ain't over now, yeah</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>No it ain't over now, yeah</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Imogen; Nick Mulvey</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <b>Jessica</b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She hears the click of teeth knocking together, his chin resting on her shoulder, right before Malcolm’s weight goes slack in her arms. Ainsley lets out a squeak of surprise, arms tightening around his shoulder as Jessica grabs him around the middle and slowly lowers him to the ground. It happens in a matter of seconds, Jessica silent as her daughter cries out in surprise, panic thick in her voice as she calls out her brother’s name. She allows it, for a second, too consumed with the condition of her oldest child to chide her youngest for the lack of grace under pressure. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Her hand slowly — slowly! — slides from behind Malcolm’s head, gentle as it rests on the plush carpet of the spare bedroom they’d taken refuge in. His head falls in her direction, eyes slivers against bloodstained skin, and now she’s the one who can’t handle herself. Jessica gasps and tries to cover with a hand over her mouth, but fails. Knows she does when Malcolm grabs her arm with his right hand, frowning. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh, baby, I’m sorry. It’s okay. You’re okay,” she says, running a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face, out of his eyes. It’s thick under her fingers, sticky in places, and she feels pain deep in her chest, somewhere past her ribs and lungs, sharp enough to pierce her heart if she lets it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>No. She’s a Milton. There are things that Need to be Done and if there’s anything Jessica Milton Whitly is good at, it is getting difficult things <em>done</em>.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ainsley,” she calls, voice stronger than she thought it could be. The girl is kneeling next to her, swaying slightly. Jessica places her hands along the girl’s cheeks, and smiles at her. “Ainsley, I need you to be very brave right now. I need you to go downstairs and find a cell phone to call <a>911</a> for your brother.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Mom, but...what,” Ainsley blinks. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jessica swipes at the tears on her cheeks. “I know, baby, but right now I need you to do this. Your brother protected us, and now we need to help him. You can do this.” And she can. Jessica knows she can. She has always had faith in her children to survive, to thrive despite the monster that once read them bedtime stories and apparently brought <em>protégés</em> into <em>her</em> house. Malcolm’s hand on her arm is proof of that. 18 hours, <em>God</em>. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ainsley <em>finally</em> nods in her hold and gathers her feet under her, as steady as a doe and why, why is it she is forced, as a mother, to watch her children go off into dangerous situations <em>all the time</em>. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Damn you, Martin,” she curses under her breath. Then, wipes her face with her free hand and turns back to Malcolm, poor Malcolm, his eyes closed and the hand on her arm slack. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm! Malcolm, you need to stay awake!” She shakes him, perhaps a bit frantically at first, but he groans and cracks open dull eyes, beautiful eyes as bright as her mother’s. “There you are.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>There isn’t much light coming in through the gossamer curtains, streetlights refracted through fabric to land on them, soft and warm. She spots the huge stain of blood on his left side and is up on her heeled feet in an instant, grabbing a corner of the bedspread as she does, not caring past needing cloth to stem the bleeding. Her knees hit the floor and she pulls up his shirt, peels back the bit of dress shirt he must have torn off himself — she feels herself fold in on herself, just a bit, a can crushed under unbearable weight — gathers her thoughts with a deep breath, and tries not to blanch at the deep red and jagged stab wound —</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m so sorry,” is all Jessica gets out before she pressing the duvet into it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm’s reaction is instantaneous. He lets out a groan that turns into a moan and starts moving, head lolling to the left and right. She keeps up the pressure with one hand and places another on his cheek, hoping he knows she’s here. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jessica doesn’t realize she’s crying until the tear hits her skin. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh, <em>Malcolm</em>, I am so, so sorry for everything,” Jessica Whitly mutters over and over, rubbing her thumb over his hot, fevered skin. How did he even go after Watkins in such a state? Attack the man and render him — </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The though hits Jessica so hard, she stills like a statue. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Malcolm,” she asks, leaning forward, “Malcolm, what happened to Watkins?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She would <em>never</em> fault him. When the ax was busting through the door, swing after swing bringing him closer to where she was protecting her injured daughter, Jessica would have gladly stabbed him in the eye and let the man bleed out on the ground. But as she sit there, trying to keep her son hanging on until help arrives, she thinks of so much of what happened, of the struggle Malcolm has fought for years. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Malcolm licks his lips and his voice is rough and soft but strong. “Locked in a truck.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jessica frowns. “My burgundy Italian leather one? Malcolm,” she laughs, “that’s for decoration!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Needed to make a statement.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“To him? Or...”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“An <em>impression</em>. On him. He’s alive.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jessica nods, feeling that pain deep inside, that crushing weight, abade just a bit. “You are a mess, my love.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He lifts his left hand, face pinched with pain. “Gonna need a cast.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh <em>God</em>,” she intones, remembering the <em>last</em> time he needed one. His anxiety had him picking at the thing two weeks in. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Mom,” he says softly, eyes more open than before, the conversation keeping him with her. But his use of the colloquialism surprises her. A tear escapes and hits the hand still on his cheek. He nestles into her touch and begins to break, lips pressed together in a thin line. He’s about to say something, but decides against it, just burrows against her touch and cries as she tries to keep his blood in his body. As if he didn’t just take down a serial killer trying to kill them all. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jessica leans down and presses her forehead against his and wonders where the <em>fuck</em> the calvary is. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Ainsley</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Wasn’t able to finish last night due to anxiety being a jerk (related to other things). Ainsley was...interesting to write. </p><p>Also, you can find me on Tumblr as NazyJayne. If you want to say hi or chat about the show and whump!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p>
    <strong>Ainsley</strong>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She’s drifting, half awake and half asleep, floating where she can forget about everything else and focus on breathing through the sharp, unrelenting pain in her head. Her vision went hazy five minutes ago, Ainsley opting to close her eyes when the ax stopped, when her mother said Malcolm was there, when his voice made its way to her ears, past the pulsing of her blood that grows louder with each breath. <em>Malcolm is here</em>. It’s a testimate to how injured she is that Ainsley is not immediately on her feet asking all the pertinent questions, chief among them being <em>how the</em> fuck <em>is Malcolm</em> here?</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Instead, she floats. Allows herself to be supported by the wall, slides down a bit. There hasn’t been much sound for awhile, just the echo of a voice that <em>sounds</em> like her brother, but <em>doesn’t</em>. Ainsley frowns, pushing herself up.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Despite what viewers of her interview may think, Ainsley Whitly <em>adores</em> her big brother. When Dad was taken away, she was stuck to Malcolm’s side, which wasn’t hard, since he was home a lot. Everything he was interested in was so cool! And he did the <em>best</em> voices when reading her stories, on his good days. He always supported her, told her the truth, and usually helped present a united front against their mother. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And out of all that time, she has only a distant memory of one other time she heard his voice like this, and it Wasn’t Good. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Fuck,” she swears under her breath. Ainsley braces her hands on the wall and pushes herself to her feet. She’s unsteady, and everything’s a bit blurry, legs wobbling under her as the adrenaline begins to wear off. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She’s going to need at least a <em>week</em> off for this family emergency. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Her mother’s cry of, “Malcolm!” has Ainsley finding her footing. Malcolm is hurting — she knows from his voice — and she has <em>always</em> been there to help him feel better. She rushes from the bathroom towards the hazy yet unmistakable shape of her brother and pulls him into a hug.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He doesn’t hug back. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It stings, but then Mom’s wrapped them both up and for a moment, it’s just the three of them, just like always, sharing a breath in the dead silence of the house. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>And then he drops and she’s grabbing his shoulders, trying to keep him upright, the strain causing the pain in her head to flare up. Mom takes the most of the heavy lifting — unlike his coworkers, Ainsley is well aware of her brother’s exercise habits and lecture on how the endorphins help with depression and anxiety levels — and she lets herself go to her knees, where she takes a moment to close her eyes and cradle her head. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>There isn’t <em>time</em> for this! Ainsley lets out a frustrated growl and takes in Malcolm’s condition. The right side of his shirt is <em>soaked</em> in blood, his right hand wrapped hastily and bleeding through. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What the hell did he do to you?” she asks, mostly to herself, Mom focused on keeping him awake. The pounding in her head is constant, stabbing, lending an unreal quality to everything; she’s two feet outside her body, operating on a broadcasting delay. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She must have blanked out for a minute; Mom has her face, eyes concerned and Ainsley hopes it’s for her. “Ainsley, I need you to be very brave right now. I need you to go downstairs and find a cell phone to call 911 for your brother.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>Downstairs</em>? Where Watkins last was? “Mom, but...what.” Her eyes are on Malcolm’s face, trying to find him under all the blood and sweat and she should stay here and help, right? </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Jessica swipes at the tears on her cheeks. “I know, baby, but right now I need you to do this. Your brother protected us, and now we need to help him. You can do this.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She <em>can’t</em>. Ainsley isn’t sure she can stand without puking all over the floor and herself. She blinks quickly, hoping it would clear her vision. It does, slightly. She sees her brother clearer, wishes she could reach out and touch his hand, do <em>something. So do this! You can go downstairs and find a fucking</em> phone. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ainsley nods her head and pats Malcolm’s leg before standing and heading for the doorway. The house is still dark, but she knows all these shadows, made friends with them one by one as she grew up. And if they scared her, she found Malcolm and they went together. She really wishes she could be holding his hand, now. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>God</em>, he had <em>warned</em> her! Her father’s — Dr Whitly’s — world had always been so abstract, stories she wormed out of her mom and brother over the years, things overheard during therapy sessions, gleamed from newspaper articles and television coverage. Her passive research sparked her love for journalism, her desire for answers no one would give her pushing her to ignore the people she <em>usually</em> trusted. Well, mostly. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She stumbles on the stairway, one foot slipping off the edge of a stair — she wraps her arms around the banister and hangs for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. It’s time for Ainsley to be the strong one. She can <em>totally</em> do this.  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Taking the stairs slowly, she sighs when she reaches the bottom and tries to remember where she put her phone. They’d been going over the weird photos from Watkins’ place in the formal dining room when the lights had gone out. When she sat down, she’d put her phone on the table! </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>But her eyes are drawn to the chest in the parlor as she passes through the room, her steps slowing as she gets closer. Fear forgotten, she approaches slowly, eyes narrowing as she takes in how it hangs open not from the hinges, but the front, where it was secured with a crowbar. The wood inside the lid has nail marks, like someone was clawing at the top, and she — </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh,” she breathes, starting to back away. Watkins was <em>in there. Was</em>. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ainsley is about to try a mad dash to the dining room when the front door bursts open with an explosion of chaos and wood, sound so loud she clamps her hands over her ears and pinches her eyes shut. Everything overwhelms her senses, compounds her head, lights flashing in her vision until —</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>A hand grips her upper arm and she swings wildly with a shout. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ainsley!” A woman is shouting her name. “Ainsley, it’s safe!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It’s not! He’s not in the box!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The hand rubs her arm. “We cleared the first floor. Ainsley, where’s Malcolm? I — I need to see — “</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The trembling in the voice snaps Ainsley out of it, and she opens her eyes to meet Dani’s warm brown ones. They’re deep with worry, tears threatening to fall, pain and guilt swirling in the back somewhere. Ainsley’s pretty good at reading people, but right now, there are cops in her house and the lights are coming back on and — oh, <em>God</em>, paramedics. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Upstairs. C’mon, help me up, I’ll take you to him.” She pauses, considering. “Bring the paramedics, quickly.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Dani looks mildly horrified, but it certainly gets her to pick up the pace. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Dani (Part 1)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Many thanks to ZoeJoy24 for the beta — she made this chapter read better and got out the wonky sentences.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dani sits at her desk, her gaze steady, but she isn’t focusing on anything besides opening that door in the cabin and finding the room empty. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She had tossed her flack vest on her desk when they returned alone with a little more force than necessary, not caring if it pushed papers and photos to the ground. She’d even fallen into her chair without bothering to pick anything up, which earned her a sharp glare from Swanson. Dani returned it with her own; the woman luckily took the hint and didn’t say a word, just went into Gil’s office and shut the door. Good. Dani didn’t think she could handle any more of the agent’s superiority complex or obvious disdain for Bright, even if it did seem like she was suddenly trying to play nice. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She sighs and leans back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. They'd made it back without hearing from Gil, forty minutes of not knowing if he was able to get anything else from the drugged-out Dr. Whitly, who'd decided to now show emotions over Bright. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’ll get it out of him,” JT says to her, rolling his chair over. She frowns, thinking she needs more caffeine if she’s not able to follow her partner. “Gil. He’ll get the info out of Father of the Year.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure. Meanwhile...” she waves her hand in the air like that explains it, says </span>
  <em>
    <span>while we sit here waiting, who knows what Watkins is doing to Bright and what if we’re too late</span>
  </em>
  <span>? She sighs and shakes her head. “Whitly’s in a cell and he’s still controlling Bright’s life.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometimes, I feel bad for the guy.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dani raises her eyebrows, opting for that instead of rolling her eyes. JT gives her a wide grin and she knows she’s fallen for his trap. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s still another ten minutes before Gil calls, telling them Bright’s in his own house. They try to reach Mrs. Whitly, then Ainsley, but no one answers. The first car on the scene reports the house is dark and no one’s answering the door. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It takes another eight minutes before they’re breaching the front door. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ainsley is a mess, blood running down the right side of her face from a wound Dani can’t see. She’s covered her ears and pinched her eyes shut against the sudden chaos of the team entering the house, overwhelmed by sound and light; there’s only high-powered flashlight beams swinging through the room, casting fleeting shadows along the walls and heavy drapes that probably cost more than Dani's entire wardrobe. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes catch on a trunk between couches, obviously forced open from the inside, and by the way JT’s eyes meet hers, she knows he’ll take care of the manhunt. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She needs to find Bright. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ainsley is a perfect guide in the dark house. Dani helps her up the stairs, supporting most of her weight as they climb slow enough that she wants to scream. In all honesty, Dani wants to run — be at Bright’s side as quickly as possible, soothe any wounds, look into those brilliant, supernatural eyes and find her friend. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Because they are friends. She trusts him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She only hopes he trusts her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the top, Ainsley starts to drop -- Dani reacts instantly, eyes on her, helping her to the ground. Once she's seated leaning against the wall, she unclips her radio from her waist and demands, "How far out is the bus? We'll need a second one."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ainsley waves her off. "I'm fine. Just a little, a little dizzy. I'm going to rest here for a minute."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The radio crackles. "Five minutes. Seven for a second," an officer responds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>"First on the right," Ainsley sighs. "I'll be right behind you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Judging by her pallor and the way her eyes are already closed, Dani seriously doubts that, but she's so close, and she respects Ainsley's wishes. It only takes a few steps and she's turning the corner into the bedroom, eyes roaming until she finds him — finds Bright lying on the floor, covered in dried and fresh blood, paler than his sister in the hallway. Mrs. Whitly's kneeling next to him, pressing the corner of a bedspread to his side, the rest following like a bride's trail. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once Mrs. Whitly catches sight of her, she brightens, if it could be called that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Detective Powell! Thank God you're here. How far is the ambulance? Can you grab a washcloth from the bathroom?" It all comes out in a rush, words jumbling over each other. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dani enters the room, eyes on Bright's face. There's blood and dirt and trails from tears and her heart breaks, right there, pieces falling to the floor to meet Mrs. Whitly's. There’s so much going on, and she should know what to do, but she can’t figure it out. Buzzing fills her ears until the sound of Mrs. Whitly clearing her throat cuts through the noise. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Uh, five minutes," Dani answers. Then points behind them, noting the door that resembles firewood more than a bathroom door. "Bathroom?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mrs. Whitly nods, then returns her attention to her son.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There's wood all over the floor, boot marks. She can't turn it off -- her mind fills in the blanks. Watkins was in the house, he'd chased Mrs. Whitly and Ainsley up stairs, where they'd holed up in the bathroom and the asshole had reenacted The Shining at them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She makes sure the water is lukewarm when she wets the cloth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After ringing out the cloth, she re-enters the room and sits near Bright’s head. He hasn't made any indication that he's noticed her presence, and that worries her. Shifting, she pulls his head -- gently -- into her lap and begins cleaning off his face. She tells herself she's just looking for any head wounds that may need attention, but that doesn't negate how intimate the act feels. His skin is warm under her touch, hot with fever, and if Mrs. Whitly is holding pressure on an open wound, that doesn't bode well for Bright.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Damn it," she swears under her breath, gently cleaning off his cheek. "Damn it Bright, why can't you just ask for help?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He hasn't had many people willing to give it, not without strings attached," Mrs. Whitly answers sadly. "Give him time."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dani doesn’t take her eyes from his face, just concentrates on cleaning his forehead. She finds the wound just above his hairline. Watkins must have hit him over the head with the butt of gun, she guesses, but cuts the thought off before the anger simmering under the surface has a chance to break free. She re-folds the washcloth to a cleaner side and keeps working, listening for the sounds of an approaching ambulance. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When she finishes, and at a loss at what to do, she lays a hand across his forehead and laughs, briefly, remembering the last time she'd teased him with her colder-than-usual — at least to Bright — hands. Maybe they’ll help with the fever, she reasons, thumb rubbing his skin idly. He moves into the touch, and her eyes widen, heart lightning with the idea that he’s awake, but then she notices how tense the skin around his eyes is, how shallow his breaths are. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mrs Whitly,” she says, quick to press two fingers to Malcolm’s neck. It takes a second to find the right spot — her hands are shaking, his skin slick with sweat — and his pulse is running a bit too fast. She grabs for her radio, “ETA on that bus?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A minute. He okay?” It’s JT, and the relief at hearing his voice is tempered by Mrs Whitly’s frantic movements. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Make it faster,” is all Dani answers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He was fine,” Mrs Whitly’s saying, “We were talking just a moment ago.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dani Powell is a stubborn woman, and she’s not giving up now. Neither is Bright. She lowers his head to the ground and kneels next to it, gently tapping both his cheeks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Malcolm, I need you to wake up, okay? You need to stay with us.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His head moves, but his eyes remain closed. Dani sighs and tries again, a bit harder. Her possible solution is more difficult with an audience, but she’s seen people slip away before, too far under to even know there was a fight to win. Though she knows it may not win her any points, she reaches for Bright’s left hand where it is draped on his stomach, and grabs it, just enough to get a reaction. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That does it. He comes to with a gasp, eyes wide, lips pressed in a tight line. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There you are darling,” Mrs. Whitly says from his other side. “The paramedics are almost here, and then they can give you whatever you need. Just...stay with us until then.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry,” Dani says, surprised at her own tears. She’s not sure what, exactly, she’s apologizing for. “Bright, I’m...I’m just so, so sorry.” Outside, the sirens can be heard. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dani,” he huffs through a short breath, “hey.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She laughs. “You get kidnapped and...and tortured and that’s all you have to say? Hey?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His smile is small and sad, and so brief. Then there’s no expression on his face, little in his eyes. His eyes are flat, dull in a way she’d never associated with him before, like he’s there but not, emotions requiring too much energy. She reaches to check his pulse again, heart in her throat, but he’s hanging on, just. Each breath is labored — he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Tired of having to fight every minute of every day. She knows he wrestles his own demons, as she does hers, his are just older and more skilled. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll take it,” decides Dani, and because she can’t think of any other way to say it, leans down to kiss his forehead. There are boots on the stairs and she knows she’ll be pulled away in a moment and probably won’t see him for the next few days, so she savors the feel of him, real and alive, before sitting back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Bright gives her a flash of emotion, looking at her with an odd expression, one she hasn’t seen before, as if she’s done something he isn’t familiar with and he doesn’t know what to do with it. But then the expression is gone, shoved under the surface, stuffed away, like he could only come out for a moment before being overwhelmed by it </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so feeling nothing was safer. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Detective,” someone says, a hand on her arm. Dani stands and steps back, letting the paramedics get to work. She hugs herself, listens as they list his injuries, as they read out his temperature and dropping blood pressure, and then she’s alone in the room with a bloodstained duvet and a case to clear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. JT</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter gave me some difficulty, which is why it took so long to write! But here it is! Only a few chapters left now. </p><p>Big thanks to ZoeJoy24 who helps make my writing better and puts up with my randomness. Like how attractive good shoulders are. Yum!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The house has been cleared, at least the rooms they know about, so JT heads for the door he remembers leads to the basement in search of this ‘secret room’ under the old Milton residence. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Rich people and their secrets</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He doubts he’ll ever get used to all the skeletons in the Whitly closet, but it is giving him an inside look at the high society his wife’s borderline obsessed with, so he’ll work with it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>NYPD and FBI jackets are </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>, marking footprints, drops of blood, dusting for prints along the walls where smears of dirt stick out as dark smiles on walls rarely seen. For a moment, this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bright’s childhood home, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and JT doesn’t know how he’d feel if this many LEOs were combing every inch of his Mama’s place — he can push that thought away, but finds he doesn’t want to, not completely. Bright is one of them; his house should be treated with respect. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So he just scowls at people he doesn’t feel are doing so as he passes, trying not to notice most of them are wearing FBI in big, yellow letters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room Bright was being held in is past the previously boarded-up office of The Surgeon, down a narrow hallway that looks to end near utility hook ups. JT passes them, finding a smaller staircase hidden behind a door that looked like it belonged to a closet. He doubts the rest of the family ever made it this far past the office, and would have no reason to come downstairs after Mrs Whitly had the rooms closed off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, all he finds down here are NYPD jackets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To his left is a blue-green panel that serves as a door to the room where Watkins held Bright. JT ducks a bit to get through and blinks at the yellow light coming from the bulbs in the walls, notes the shop light shining on chains bolted to the floor near — “Hell, kid,” he breathes. The stains are </span>
  <em>
    <span>big</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Bright’s lost a lot of blood. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a camera on a tripod off to his right, plugged in to the crudely installed wall socket so there’s no need to worry about a battery running out. JT frowns as he approaches it, noting the view screen is still on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And when he gets there, he figures out why. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The damn thing’s still recording,” he mutters. The two techs — people from Edrisa’s team, he could hug the woman — pause in their work and look to him, eyes big. JT shrugs and hits stop with a gloved finger. The time code reads 04:34:51, meaning either the entire length of Bright’s kidnaping hadn’t been recorded, or this isn’t the first tape. Pressing rewind, JT watches an empty screen as the time counts down, and judging by the size of the bloodstains on the floor, it isn’t counting down to anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s right. Bright comes back into frame, backwards, standing to kneeling, unwrapping something from around his hand. It goes by quick, but JT’s been around long enough to have some idea something major just happened. He hits play and watches as Bright, in rough shape, looks off camera for a moment, listening, except there’s no one talking. Maybe the sound isn’t on, and that could be a blessing, except JT hears when Bright grabs a hammer from the canvas bag still sitting on the floor a few feet away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve gotta be — “ JT doesn’t finish his thought because Bright slams the damn thing down on his </span>
  <em>
    <span>hand</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and lets out a scream he’s not going to forget for awhile. One of the techs jumps. Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s hardcore how he goes from agony to determination, wrapping the injury and walking out of frame. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>JT hits stop and closes the viewfinder, turning off the camera. There’s hours more, and someone will watch them and summarize it all in sanitized language that removes the trauma from the person. He’s read enough reports in his time from the military through police service to know. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“ETA on that bus?” Dani asks, voice echoing from his radio off the cement walls. He can hear the tension in her voice, and after what he just saw, well, it doesn’t add up to anything good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>JT checks his watch and answers, “A minute. He okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just make it fast.” It’s a huff, the last word cut off. JT’s half tempted to rush up the stairs, but she would have said something if things were that bad. The kid was walking around within the last hour, according to the time code. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re just rationalizing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>JT closes his eyes and groans. He’s going to run upstairs to make sure Bright’s okay, isn’t he?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is. And to think he spent the first month the profiler was around actively resisting the urge to throttle him. There was a betting pool and everything. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dani, of course, won. Mostly because she got inside info from Gil. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jogging up the last of the stairs, JT emerges from the basements and makes it to the rear door just as the stretcher and assembled personnel make it past the kitchen, trailed by Mrs Whitly and Bright’s sister, holding a bloody towel to her head. Being bigger, JT finds a spot and makes it his, at Bright’s left shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In person, he looks half-dead. As pale as the sheet they’ve thrown over his body, eyes half-open and sunken, as still as JT’s ever seen him, including asleep. Going easy, JT pats his shoulder and tries to give a reassuring smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, man, it’s good to see you,” he says, and means every word of it. Bright gives him a bit of a smile under the oxygen mask, blinking up at him. “You’re one of us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s surprise, there, and maybe JT hasn’t been the best at showing how little the kid’s been annoying him lately, and that, okay, him crashing his and Tally’s date wasn’t the worst thing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And that thing with the hand? Hardcore.” They’re going down the driveway, now — who has a car-wide ramp to their back door — and JT looks away when he speaks to make sure he doesn’t run into anyone. When he looks back, Bright’s expressionless, no longer looking over at him, and JT realizes too late what he said. “Sorry, man,” he mumbles, giving his shoulder a squeeze. He stops, letting everyone proceed, giving the rest of the family a nod as they pass. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A bit early to bring that up, huh, Tarmel?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d been thinking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bright is always looking for approval, for some proof JT likes him.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He’d been wanting to let him know he did good, made the right choice — the chain or handcuffs would have taken much longer to break, and there </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span> have been no time if he went right for the hand. But he’d forgotten, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t mention it, don’t say anything, I don’t want to think right now,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and JT’s kicking himself for it. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
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